Opening Night
by The Sith Virtuoso
Summary: What is it that lurks in the mind of the Virtuoso? The Duchess Karma embarks on a dangerous wager to discover the man behind the mask. A prequel to both "Beauty" and "Angel in the Night". Reviews are very much appreciated! (Republished due to accidental deletion of the original)
1. Act I - Chapter 1

**Author's note: I'm sorry this took a while...it's rather difficult when you've got so many ideas and so little time. I've had to rewrite a lot of parts to make sure everything fit together and felt as perfect as can be. I hope I succeeded. -SV**

 **Most characters property of Riot Entertainment.**

* * *

 **OPENING NIGHT**

 _"Everyone wears a mask...I just chose to create my own."_

* * *

 **Act I – Chapter 1**

The setting sun made the silken letter in his hand seem ablaze.

For most others, it would have been a contract of the blackest kind.

He had received so many of these in the past two years. But never once did he see them for what they were...

Instead of a contract, he saw a commission for _true_ art.

Art that only _he_ can produce.

 _You shall be beautiful..._

His eye scanned the parchment, picking up details but only one usually—the name of his mark – held any significance.

 _You shall be_ perfect _..._

He had always been paid handsomely for his...services. But truth be told, he cared very little about material wealth. The artist had need for coin only for necessities—and what may be required to make his next performance a masterpiece.

 _Let it not be said that I am not a professional._

His eye danced about the rest of his commission and he could already feel the impatience of his art waiting to be created.

 _I cannot live without the euphoria of performance..._

That was when he noticed a few details that seemed off…

A lesser man may have let those pass, but not he.

His euphoria disappeared like morning dew, only to be replaced by cold fury.

He had more than enough mind to understand what intent lay behind the immaculately written words.

 _Trying to censor me?_ he mocked, _art can never be silenced!_

A more rational man—no, an _ordinary_ man—would have backed down from such odds.

But he was not the most rational...

 _Neither am I...ordinary,_ shuddering in a moment of absolute distaste.

The red sun was finally sinking and the night sky was beginning to fill with the light of countless stars.

The very vision of peace.

The artist's mind however was on fire from the letter in his hand.

They dare insult him? His work? His _birthright?_

Only one had ever succeeded in doing so.

The artist had already been cheated of what would have been a crowning triumph in his illustrious career when _that_ individual had fallen to another's hands.

The culprit was an upstart so _far_ below him and his mark that the artist was in utter disbelief when he had first heard of what had transpired.

The memory still made his blood boil and the bile rise in his throat.

 _They want a performance?_ his rage turned into malevolent glee, crushing the parchment within his gauntleted fist, _they shall_ have _a performance!_

* * *

"I feel uneasy about this, Duchess," Irelia whispered.

The Duchess Karma did not seem to hear and remained a silent observer to events as they unfolded.

The Blade Dancer had been uneasy for the entire time since she had heard of the Duchess' plan. When she had first been approached by the Duchess about it, she could scarce process what she had heard.

Yet there they were, disguised in plain sight; veiled handmaidens attending to the food and drink of a feast held in the immense estate of Gysei Reto.

Gysei was a merchant who dealt in metals, forging, and construction who had made a name for himself across Valoran both in his outspokenness for Ionia's industrial progress and the prodigious managerial abilities that had made him one of the wealthiest individuals in all of Runeterra.

He was also a secret but staunch ally of the Duchess Karma, who came to value his lesser known enterprise of trafficking secrets and information that would otherwise be left unheard of...

Such was the power of having gold to burn and a belief in the greater good.

 _He should not be doing this_ , Irelia thought, casting a glance at their "host" who continued to entertain guests left and right as if without a care in the world him even as guests continued to pour out from exorbitantly expensive custom-built telearches—hextech teleportation gates freshly imported from Piltover but with aesthetics crafted in pure Ionian style.

The merchant was more than what he appeared on the surface. If anything, he had proved himself a most skilled actor, especially after what the Duchess had asked of him.

Irelia broke a cold sweat beneath her borrowed silken robes, and her blades, kept deftly in the food cart she was pushing shifted slightly in reaction to her emotions. She mentally chided herself— _she_ was the warrior, not Gysei and yet _he_ was the one who looked totally at ease in fulfilling the duty asked of him.

Let it not be said that the maverick merchant did not have loyalty and a constitution of steel.

She looked at the Duchess, herself garbed in a similar garment, and knew she was feeling ill at ease as well.

It had been hours since the elaborate farce had started and way beyond the time they had conscripted in the counterfeit contract.

Every passing moment lent more tinder to the embers of fear in their hearts, threatening to burst into a full fledged blaze.

From the corner of her eye she spied two members of the Kinkou crouched in vigil atop the roof of a small, nearby pagoda.

It was reassuring at least that they had allies in this endeavour.

Lord Shen himself was patrolling the area, along with several of his subordinates. They kept their presence hidden as best they could—both from the celebrants and from the Golden Demon himself if and when he came.


	2. Act I - Chapter 2

**Act I – Chapter 2**

The revelry within Gysei Reto's manse could barely be heard in the dense woods surrounding it. There, members of the Kinkou patrolled in near total darkness.

The ageless trees, with foliage grown thick from Ionia's rich soil and the Ionian people's own care for them, provided the best possible cover.

At another time, it would have been a blessing to the ninjas. They had been trained after all to consider stealth as an ally and a matter of life and death.

But there and then, they were hardly the targets. The very darkness they considered their friend quite likely hid their true enemy.

The shadows would never have hidden an ordinary man from the Kinkou. Then again, their mark was hardly ordinary.

They would never admit it, but many of those who would survive that night would admit feeling afraid—that for the first time perhaps in their lives, they were not the hunters, but the hunted.

And the hunter, they heard, was at home in the darkness as much as he was in his deranged idea of a limelight.

Such fear was justified; for in those woods, one-by-one, Kinkou started to disappear. Not in the way ninjas are won't to do, but to literally vanish.

At first, it seemed like a coincidence—the patrol units would regroup at certain points within the woods—that perhaps their opposite members were simply late to their rendezvous.

But as the clock ticked and the moon climbed higher in the night sky, the Kinkou began to notice.

One-at-a-time, or in groups, their opposite members would go silent.

Such was the only giveaway that something was amiss.

The fear bred from the Golden Demon's reputation mutated in their minds—Ionia's woods were rumoured to be the haunt of many a restless spirit—that some of these tormented souls would sometimes burst forth from beyond to claim one of the living as their own.

It did not help that the same fear began to feed their fevered imaginations that just _maybe_ the infamous Khada Jhin was not a man, but a bloodthirsty wraith.

How to fend off such a creature?

Such a question was far beyond them.

As they pondered with icy fingers caressing their hearts, what little light fell within the woods seemed to disappear into the noxious shadows and the ominously growing sound of silence.

* * *

The artist reloaded his instrument.

She had newly forged silencers on both barrels. Each as ornate and beautiful as Whisper herself.

No second or effort spared to sacrifice form over function.

 _Wonderful..._

At another time, he would never have imagined fitting a silencer on his beloved instrument.

The shot—the _voice—_ of Whisper was simply too beautiful. It would have been blasphemy to silence such beauty.

But the idea of stealth and the sheer magnitude of the potential production had intrigued him—so another challenge had come forth.

A true virtuoso to the end, he had since composed the score and fabricated the means by which he would create a totally new twist to his impressive gallery of works.

Original.

Visionary.

Divine.

 _L'Opera Fermata..._

A musical production of _pure_ silence that only through his vision and skill could be accomplished.

 _One._

Every shot was a conductor's staff being wielded, with each hit— impeccably timed, flawlessly executed—forcing every glorious note into existence from those he had chosen to become his orchestra.

 _Two._

He could _feel_ everything...and the paradox of his silent performance was exhilarating.

 _Three._

He was true to his vision. An _auteur_ of the highest order.

 _Four._

The curtains were rising.


	3. Act I - Chapter 3

**Act I – Chapter 3**

It was Irelia who cried out the alarm.

The bait-feast was in full swing when their enemy made his move well past midnight.

Had Irelia not decided to patrol the gate-tower of the manse, had Shen been a second too slow in casting a spirit shield, the man known as Gysei Reto would be little more than a grotesque corpse as they spoke.

Four shots were fired. Four empowered rounds from the hextech accelerator mounted on the assassin's shoulder.

Any of those four would have made the merchant the latest in the Golden Demon's expansive "gallery".

But alas, it seemed not to be.

Would that be the night where the infamous Khada Jhin would at last be apprehended for good and for all?

It certainly seemed to be—having revealed his position even after silently dispatching so many junior Kinkou—it took Shen and three of his subordinates no time at all to close in on the masked killer.

It did not escape Shen's notice when his old enemy seemed to simply give up.

Khada Jhin had calmly dropped his weapons on the ground and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender, with the smiling ivory mask betraying none of the thoughts of its owner.

* * *

Was he frightened?

Shen did not forget how this man had cowered before his late father during his first capture.

 _Something is amiss_ , Shen thought, looking into the eerily bemused expression in that one hazel eye.

He shook that thought away. This was a chance that none of them may ever have again.

Without further ado, they shackled the infamous killer's wrists and whisked him off into courtyard of the manse, oblivious to the genuinely growing smile underneath the pale mask.

Just minutes before, what was a raucous feast had turned into near solemn silence interrupted only by the random sobs and nervous whisperings of those who had borne witness to the assassination attempt.

Karma could feel her heart thumping in her throat when she saw Lord Shen and his apprentices coming closer with their capture.

She had so much to ask of the Golden Demon, and even more work to do once that was said and done.

Under the silver rays of Ionia's moon she and those present beheld the man.

A living legend in many respects; of the sort that inspired terror in grown men that a nightmare bogeyman would a child.

Gysei Reto's mask of confidence had been shattered on the attempt on his life, but as he stood on a podium to study his would-be killer, he found...that his bravery had completely left him.

There was something about him...this tall, slender and deceptively powerful man garbed in white, gold and purple...

Was it the silence which he held despite being questioned by his captors?

Was it the red gleam in his eye when they locked gazes?

Was it that mask he wore? Impeccably sculpted with what looked like a knowing smile on its face?

He would never know.

Shen's shield may have deflected the lethal rounds, but in doing so, had sent them into trajectories already thought of by the self-anointed Virtuoso.

Those bullets, specially built by the Golden Demon, were now quietly ticking away in the stone floor surrounding the merchant.

None of those present could ever perceive that the being in the pale mask was not silent out of indignation.

A genuine artist to the last, he was never surprised, never unprepared.


	4. Act I - Chapter 4

**Act I – Chapter 4**

This is Khada Jhin's newest masterpiece.

Each round, forged by the Virtuoso's loving touch, gathered ambient magic. An orchestra providing a silent prelude even as the comedy of their conductor's interrogation took to stage.

Each round, destined to detonate and be the overture of his newest composition.

At last they had gained enough magic, _prima donnas_ finishing their vocalizing backstage for the actual performance, each of the four rounds releasing their payload right on cue.

A dramatic overture to be sure, one written with light and fire and pulverized stone.

The audience and cast were one and the same, all in their places, all in a state of momentary shock just as the artist had predicted in his inspired study.

They provided the rising action, stumbling from the tremors that resulted like the puppets they were, banging onto one another, living _his_ vision and _bleeding_ for it.

In the midst of such dissonance came the _piéce de resistance_ —the floor beneath the podium where Gysei Reto had stood burst apart in a contrabass roar.

And then the true crescendo—lo, and behold when all present saw the spectacle of the merchant and a few onlookers plunging into a smelting pit of molten gold beneath the courtyard.

The Virtuoso's soul sang while witnessing his genius come to life...

 _A Golden Offering._

His mark transcending life into _true_ beauty... radiant _golden_ butterflies rising from the pit, a song of brightest sunfire erupting daringly and defiantly into the cold night.

 _You have awoken something deep inside me..._

A _tableau vivánt_ that emanated music pure as the dawn of the universe— _chiaroscuro_ forged from fire and flesh and blood and bone!

All that _beauty_...from what was once _just_ a man!

 _Magnifique!_ he proclaimed it in his deepest heart.

* * *

How the genius would have wanted it to last longer, but every performance needed a denouement, and it was his and his _alone_ to play.

 _The show never ends!_

In the next few moments leading from Gysei Reto's immolation, while the audience-cast was still spellbound by the climax, the masked genius freed himself from his shackles and retrieved _Whisper_ from her erstwhile captor.

They were his puppets, and they would dance to his composition until its very end.

 _One._

One such puppet, gaudy in her regal attire and title of Duchess, had snapped out of the spell and tried to bind him where he stood—but the artist _knew_ , and tossed a grenade in her way, shifting her focus to containing its explosion.

 _Two._

A few junior members of the Kinkou had then tried to upstage the master of the stage, but the ever-gracious, ever _understanding_ Virtuoso instead made them _beautiful_...

 _Three._

Made them _perfect_...

 _Four!_

With a flamenco flourish, he hurled another grenade at the dashing leader of the ninja clan—the stoic and ever stiff Shen—and with impeccable timing and accuracy, _shot_ the glittering cartridge.

A spectacular rose of purple fire came into being, one which sent the Master of the Kinkou recoiling and scintillating molten petals flying into several onlookers—a last minute comedy to wrap up his opera.

 _Smiles and screams; I bring both!_

The Golden Demon then planted a particularly special lotus trap—one with a small gift concealed within its secret heart—into the stone surrounding a telearch.

An inspired performance, after all, needs an equally inspired exit.

 _Au suivant!_

He bowed while stepping into the activated telearch, and with a curtain call of fire and freedom, the artist had gone.


	5. Act II - Chapter 1

**Act II – Chapter 1**

The Duchess tried to keep her cover as convincing as it could possibly be.

Days had passed since Gysei Reto had passed from this life but Karma felt like the gruesome spectacle had only happened mere minutes ago.

How his flesh boiled and evaporated upon being kissed by the flowing metal!

How he emitted that horrific sound as he sank into the seething gold!

A cry borne from the most primal and animalistic fear, a song ripped from the deepest, most primitive heart of the jungle—that of certain death, and the knowledge of it coming to be.

She closed her green eyes, and only saw her friend once more become one with the pit.

The hells teemed not with shades of shadow and night but convulsed with a multitude so golden and radiant that even they _burned_ in their own light!

That the unspeakably vile creature responsible for such an act had escaped with ridiculous ease was another chain hung upon her spirit.

Her soul bled even more when she had been informed of and borne witness to the results of the Golden Demon's rampage in the woods outside the great manse.

But it was in the ruined remains of the telearch from which he had made his daring escape that she had uncovered his real insult, the proverbial salt in the wound, the axe's blade upon her neck.

How such a small thing, one which somehow _called_ out to her like a babe for its mother, could fill her soul with enough shadow to last lifetimes was beyond her ability to comprehend.

Her spirit still shaken, Karma had made up her mind, and those few whom she had made known of her decisions vehemently opposed her.

 _This is madness, Duchess! Madness!_

Oh she still heard those words and a many other variants along with the sound of throats drying, the sight of skin growing pale, of eyes widening in shock and indignation.

Pleading that she somehow heed reason, that there was— _must_ be another way—and so on, so forth.

There _was_ no other way.

He had made it clear in the impeccably written silken letter hidden safe within the core of the hextech blossom.

 _Dearest Duchess,_

 _It has come to my attention that you seem to crave...an audience with me. You need only but have asked, and I would have come to you as a gentleman would. All that cloak-and-dagger was sadly unnecessary...and yet I am grateful. The art born from my will and your choosing is something I expected to be sublime._

 _You would not be reading this had I failed._

 _It was rather rude of me, I suppose, for leaving without having minced proper words with a persona of your stature. Yet_ you _tried to censor me._ You _spat at my work and thus spat at me._

 _You may have noticed, my critics tend to be...short lived._

 _Meddle with another one of my productions, tell the world of_ this _little correspondence, and_ I _shall compose a piece to make my_ Golden Offering _look like a street mummer's farce. I_ will _know if you do._

 _I am a man of my word._

 _I_ am _curious...and I believe you are as well. Would you like to_ see _as I see? To_ feel _what I feel? To_ believe _what I believe?_

 _To know what beauty_ truly _is?_

 _Ask yourself...while you turn all the power you can spare in deciphering the details about_ the _Gathering to be held at the Isle of Tears on the night of the Blood Moon._

 _Time is a flighty mistress, your Grace, but I shall make that night the one exception to my maxim of 'art waits for no one'._

 _I look forward to having a proper...conversation with you._

 _Might I add, a mask of your choosing and your most splendid dress would be_ perfect _for the occasion._

 _Your humble servant,_

 _Khada Jhin_

What choice did she have indeed.

* * *

The night seemed destined to surprise her at every corner and Karma wisely kept her vigilance.

The Isle of Tears was an uninhabited expanse of rock and black trees—or so the maps and adventurers claimed.

Only under rigorous sifting of ancient tomes did she discover that the seemingly empty island was not all that it seemed.

The Blood Moon was known to be a night when a different kind of magic was rife in Ionia.

It was said that under its red rays, all secrets shall be bared—for an offering of blood.

 _Whose blood?_ She thought bleakly, watching the small sloop that had transported her to the Isle of Tears disappear into the sea.

She had come for truths, and brought a letter penned by her own hand for the Golden Demon.

She was not sure how it would work—if it even _could_ —but hoped that by accepting his invitation, he would honor the same.

Turning away from the gently lapping surf, an imposing set of steps lay before her. Saving time and effort, she levitated herself over them—lo and behold, an imposing citadel long since lost to antiquity was revealed in all its splendour once she had reached their end.

Not only Ionians it seemed took notice of the Blood Moon's power.

The citadel's architecture was not of modern Ionian design. A fearsome white and black stone edifice met her, with sharp, angular features that were so unlike the flowing, almost organic look found in most Ionian abodes.

Under the red moon, it seemed to be a hulk of raw, bleeding flesh with shards of black bone exploding out from its being.

In front of what looked to be an immense mirror stood four guards clad head to toe in armor forged from pure, unadorned gold. Alone they were unsettling enough, with their mute, faceless discipline and polearm-like weapons.

She gathered her courage and advanced toward them.

The four sentinels seemed to have become transfixed by her while she approached.

The Duchess could not blame them. It was not only they who made a curious sight that evening.

What did they think perhaps upon seeing her?

Karma drew herself to her full statuesque height whilst approaching the four faceless guards. She was wearing a low-cut, black halterneck gown made of the finest Ionian nightsilk, one adorned with a small plume of iridescent feathers at the level of the shoulder and precious stones arranged in riverlike patterns that made a striking contrast to her dark skin. A tiny hidden pocket affixed near the thigh cut contained Karma's little gamble.

Her mystique was furthered by the emerald festival mask she sported made from individual strands of hand-drawn metal, along with arm-length fingerless evening gloves and high-heeled sandals made from basilisk-hide lace.

The sentinels crossed their weapons to bar her entry at first; but upon seeing the rose shaped amethyst and chrome brooch fastened at her neck—another gift concealed inside Khada Jhin's exploding blossom—did they bow and allow her to pass.

Karma had learned that this great mirrorlike wall was a gate of some kind and felt the ancient magic it radiated within its flowing, seemingly liquid surface calling to her.

When she felt the rose on the Golden Demon's gift pulse with the same power, she understood and extended the hand bearing it to touch the great mirror.

The mirror's touch was one of wintery cold, but Karma's hand went through, producing transient cracks on the portal's flowing face.

 _Into the abyss,_ she thought, closing her eyes.

* * *

The deathly silence of the outside world disappeared and she was assaulted suddenly by the sound of festive music and a chattering multitude.

 _A gala?_ She thought in disbelief for that was it appeared to be.

A crowd of beings—human, yordle, vastaya and who knows what else—all gathered in a bacchanalia in one cathedral sized ballroom. All the guests—for the Duchess had no better term to describe them—sporting attire and costumes outlandish as many a performer on stage, and all of them with masks of equally ornate design.

Karma also knew that these men and women were responsible for some of the most atrocious horrors Runeterra had ever witnessed. They would make the Cabal responsible for the release of the Golden Demon look positively innocent.

 _The fabled Black Rose_ , she thought darkly.

A secret fraternity that had operated in the shadows since before the Rune Wars, one which had once infested only faraway Noxus, but now had allegedly spread over the entire planet and beyond if the rumours are to be believed.

She did not fail in spying those men and women in Ionian-inspired attire despite their masks, intermingling with Demacian, Freljordian, Noxian and even Shuriman counterparts.

If there was a political superpower in Runeterra, it would be these people.

She may have divine power beyond the comprehension of most mortals, but here she knew were beings who had the means to subdue even people like her.

They who wielded sheer power, she knew, could be broken by those who will do anything to win.

The Duchess was revolted just by the presence of these people. Such was the price she was willing to pay for the truth and her true target was still nowhere in sight.

Just then, the gates at the other end of the hall creaked open, and all eyes were fixed to the spectacle that came forth.

A tall woman in deathly white robes and a featureless red mask led a van of six naked humans who carried on their backs an enormous golden basin whose inside was embossed deeply into the petals of a rose.

The suffering of those six individuals was felt by Karma, and she needed to steel herself, for she saw that all of them bore scars, bruises and brands all over their bodies. The Duchess also realized that they were blind, deaf, and mute—their eyes gouged out, ears burnt asunder and mouths sewn shut—and led on black iron chains shackled at their wrists and ankles that terminated into one common braid held in the hand of the woman in the white.

She had never known a more miserable group of beings.

The pale lady stopped in the centre of the ballroom and the six slaves set down their charge as one, each kneeling down and facing the edges of the great basin with their heads bowed while six faceless guards, like the sentinels outside, took position behind each slave.

The lady then flicked her wrist, and from each of the golden guards' hands emerged daggers.

Karma's eyes widened in horror at what was to come next.

There were six simultaneous flashes of gold, followed by six simultaneous torrents of scarlet.

There was a collective sigh of awe from the audience, and the sound of blood spattering from slaves' necks into the rose-basin, their sources crumpling forward as if in obeisance to the thing which imbibed the very essence of their lives into its cold metal being.

The members of the Black Rose appeared to have become transfixed into silence by the depraved holocaust that had just occurred. Karma herself was in a state of shock, speechless and could only watch the slaves' blood running through the outline of the petals until they united at the bud in its core.

For a moment, there was but a rose of liquid crimson with petals whose edges were made of solid gold.

The Duchess blinked—for the blood then seemed to course on its own accord— and echoes of depraved eldritch sorcery emanating from the sacrificial basin began to assault her perception.

Giant petals made of scarlet liquid slowly began to rise out of the golden basin to the awe of the audience. They then coalesced into a bud that slowly came apart, a flower coming into full bloom.

From its heart stepped out a tall, slender man dressed in a magnificent red and gold lace coat sporting a luxurious mane of platinum blond hair. Loud cheers and applause from all those present met him save for Karma, who knew the newcomer all too well from her time in the Fields of Justice.

"Thank you, thank you!" Vladimir smiled, "a most pleasant evening to you all!"

"Tonight marks the annual founding of our sublime brotherhood. A brotherhood founded not in blood," the ageless hemomancer smirked at his own private joke, "but in spirit; a common vision of a united Runeterra. We are the chosen few. Picked by _destiny_ to lead this world into a glorious future. All you great personages here would know that many see us as _monsters_ , but we beg to differ, do we not?

The costumed and masked crowd responded in the affirmative.

" _Who_ is evil? The parent whose complacency leads a child to founder without aim? Or the parent whose lash serves to _mold_ the child into a citizen of tomorrow?"

A chorus of 'ayes' met the Crimson Reaper's gesticulating visage.

"Alas, let tonight be a one of revelry for you, dear sisters and brothers, we deserve a little time for ourselves. The Matron LeBlanc apologizes for her absence in our celebration, as she is currently involved in affairs for the betterment of our organization and that of our world. I too must excuse myself for matters that need my immediate attention in my homeland. On her behalf and mine, I bid you all adieu and wish you a most happy evening. _Ave Furvus Rosa! Ave LeBlanc!_ "

The masked crowd repeated the exclamation in concert as the Crimson Reaper gave a flamboyant bow while he, the great gold rose-basin, and the bodies of the sacrificed dissolved into an ephemeral pool of supernatural blood which had manifested itself on the ballroom floor.

After that brief moment of elation, the festivities continued as if nothing had taken place.

She had seen countless atrocities in all her years and multiple lives, but never did she think that such a depraved group of individuals existed.

"My, my, who is this most beautiful damsel?" she heard his voice tease. Karma turned and sure enough, there he was.

He was clad in an off-shoulder cape of regal white and purple fastened on the right shoulder by a brooch that mirrored her own. Adding to that, a fine black frock coat, silver white leather boots and gauntlets and his infamous ivory mask, Khada Jhin made sure that he stood out from the crowd.

Before she could say anything, the Golden Demon swept her into his arms and kept her there, intimate as lovers.

"Pull the rug from under _my_ show," he whispered into her ear, "and every single person here dies."

The killer's barely veiled threat woke Karma out of her stupor, "Alright, you have my attention."

"You claimed to be a man of your word," she whispered back harshly, "now prove yourself right."

The Golden Demon chuckled softly, letting her out of his embrace.

"Come, Duchess Karma," he gently took her hand, "we have much to discuss."


	6. Act II - Chapter 2

**Act II – Chapter 2**

He led her through the crowd which parted accordingly, almost deferentially, all eyes fixed on the tall, slender man in the ornate white mask.

Awe.

Anxiety.

Fear.

Karma could feel all these emotions emanating from the members of the Black Rose who beheld the Golden Demon. It appeared that even in this circle of monsters, Khada Jhin was in a league of his own, and his reputation preceded him.

Stealing away from the crowd's prying eyes, they ascended through a small staircase into a candlelit theatre box adorned in black and scarlet lace that overlooked the grand ballroom. Their little venue, Karma surmised, must have some kind of soundproofing built into it—by magic or by engineering she did not know—for the sound of the festivities below came to them in muted tones.

The masked man let go and silently gestured for her to take a seat by a small, hand carved table situated in the centre of the box. Before she did as he pleased, she pressed upon him the rolled parchment.

Momentarily perplexed, the masked man took it nonetheless and proceeded to read it quickly.

Ever on guard, her eyes never left him as she sat, watching him pour out the contents of a golden cistern into two crystal goblets while he read her proposition.

Khada Jhin took both goblets and sat down opposite her at that small table and proceeded to offer her one such cup.

"I would not have gone through all this trouble if only to poison you, Duchess," the Golden Demon smirked.

"Why would I trust you?" Karma queried even as she took the crystal goblet.

"So predictable," he laughed lightly and took a sip, "You, who has had the luxury of living out so many lives and still so—forgive me— _lacking_ in perspective."

Her emerald eyes narrowed behind her own mask, "Just a moment ago, you all but threatened to take the life of every being here. Now you offer me this drink. Tell me then, Jhin, what kind of 'perspective' _should_ I take?"

To prove her point, the Duchess took a hearty swig.

Chilled Edessan hippocras from north of Demacia. Sweet yet tangy, aged to perfection and the best Karma has ever had. Such a vintage was highly regarded across all Runeterra with a price to rival its reputation.

"You are a courageous woman, O Enlightened One," the masked man remarked, "and as you say, I _am_ a man of my word."

"So you say," she replied more calmly, "and what do _you_ say, Khada Jhin, about my letter?"

"That I become one of the representatives for our beloved nation in the Fields of Justice?" he chuckled, "the idea has its merits…and this is _one_ commission that I find too hard to refuse. I _accept_."

He regarded her with his head slightly tilted, legs crossed and the crystal goblet lazily raised in one hand.

 _Perspective. I shall humor you hence, madman._

Karma took this as a good sign and was pleased with his unexpected graciousness. She planned to to speak more about her deal later once she had steered the conversation under wing.

"How do you find the hippocras?"

The one hazel eye she could see from beneath that pale visage of a face never left her, seemingly watching her every move in a curious, almost childlike manner. Even Karma's empathic abilities found nothing to suggest he had any ulterior motive—that the ivory mask was fixed in its eerie, knowing smile did nothing to help.

The Duchess decided to play along as best she possibly could.

"Excellent," she remarked, returning his hazel gaze with her own piercing emerald ones, "though I suppose it would be a little thing for the Black Rose to have this kind of luxury under its belt."

"Touché, "her sharp remark caused him to laugh, "I'm pleased to see you are not just a brave woman of good taste, but one possessed of healthy wit."

"Do those matter so much to you?"

"Yes, my lady. I have always preferred an _educated_ audience. It is _tiring_ when your art cannot be appreciated simply because the audience cannot _process_ it properly. Ah, an icon does not have to _explain_ himself...but more often than not, I feel that I must. Even to an enlightened listener. You, for one, understand only harmony; _discord_ is required for contrast."

Her goblet was empty and with a simple twitch of her will, the Duchess called forth the golden cistern and poured some hippocras for herself. She thought none of the Golden Demon's nonchalant insult. Then without fail, she floated the cistern toward the Golden Demon who extended his own goblet to receive more of the vintage.

"You truly amuse me, Duchess Karma," the Golden Demon teased.

"You are not the only one capable of surprises, Jhin."

"I salute you there, your Grace," raising his goblet to her, "I do believe tonight will have surprises aplenty for everyone. You claim to have come for answers. Before you sits the _artist_...now what is it about _my_ artistry that you wish to understand?"

* * *

"I was never able to look into a mirror...to see the 'face' I was born with. 'Tis a face that is not mine. I have since cast it aside as I had the name I was given upon being born..."

It had been half an hour since their correspondence had started, yet only seconds appeared to have passed for the Duchess.

She was getting more than what she had bargained for.

In that half hour, he had discussed in vivid detail of his youth, of how _lost_ he felt as child. How his father had attempted to instill a sense of duty, training him to become a martial artist as he was.

He certainly had more than enough talent, but how empty it was.

He had likened himself to an automaton.

Always present but never quite 'there'.

A puppet without a master.

No credo, mantra, nor ideological dogma set forth by long-dead acerbic monks could suffice for the listlessness he had felt since he could first comprehend what it was. Oh how he wanted more for himself...more beyond the severe life he had led.

"The essence of a thing...is found only in its absence," he whispered in doleful reminiscence.

Of how he ran away from home at a tender age, seeking solace in theatre, in music, in art...for it was during those times when the famed travelling theatres and carnivals of Ionia would pass through the distant province of Zhyun that he felt most alive.

"Their spark and dazzle, all fantasy. Sleight of hand. But it intrigued me to _feel_ how these imitations, these simulacra of life as I knew it...were more _alive_ to me than any rigorous exercise," he reminisced as if a fevered dream, "That the lines spoken and the melodies played by these minstrels were more _natural_ than the bubbling of mountain brooks or the songs of the manifold birds in the trees."

He was an itinerant street mummer, a step above a beggar, when it was with one such group that he had been taken in and first felt at home. The Duchess listened heartily despite herself. Hearing how he, an awkward but gifted child with nothing except martial discipline and techniques had put to use his rigorous upbringing to escape into the life he had dreamt of for so long.

He had made himself an ideal student, willing to do everything and anything his adoptive family—for he refused to call them anything but—would ask of him, and ready to receive and understand instruction at every turn. He endured raised voices, the lash and outright disgrace—even welcomed such things—if only it meant his ascension as a _real_ artist.

He had been little more than a labourer at first, albeit one possessed of an unrivalled interest and love for the wonders in which he had been fortunate enough to help in his own little way...

"They knew I watched with wonder at how they birthed their magic. But none can comprehend the kind of _focus_ , ardour, and _passion_ I put in adopting their art and making it my own..."

He told her of his first artistic steps; with crafts borne from his own hands gracing the stages of these wandering minstrels. What with each artform that he would master, he would ascend...in no time at all, he had learned to play practically every instrument in the Ionian repertoire, with the moon lyre as his personal favourite. In no time at all, he had learned to write impressively—creating sonnets, poems and operas that seized the heart and rent the soul.

In other words, the masked man thought at the time, he was _born_ for art.

In no time at all, he had gone up the ladder from mere stagehand, to writer, to conductor or musician and eventually he was allowed to _direct_ his own productions by the travelling theatre's _maître d'_ _théâtre_ after she had finally seen his real worth.

He had gratefully taken his chance, and gone beyond any before him...

"I was not content to just _direct_...I would compose the score, write the story, command and cajole my cast and crew to the best of all _our_ abilities. I would speak to all of them—my people backstage and onstage—and birth from them the visions I shed sweat, tears and blood for."

Oh but how he longed to be under the spotlight and not just someone behind the curtain...his lifelong insecurities had long prevented him from taking that last crucial step. Day by day, he wrestled with his fears, feeling destiny calling out to him.

"Even then, I knew that I belonged there. Atop _my_ stage, in _my_ limelight."

But when the moment came when at last he had stepped onstage to perform in one of his works, even after a standing ovation from his audience, even after his whole "family" had realized his _true_ worth...it simply was not enough.

It was a crisis the likes of which Khada Jhin did not know was possible.


	7. Act II - Chapter 3

**Act II – Chapter 3**

"The suffering of the flesh...can barely reflect the shattering of a soul."

He was supposed to have ascended into the most empyrean of heavens and instead plummeted into the deepest hells.

"If ever there was true suffering, surely it was then that I understood," the famed Golden Demon said, actually shedding a tear of genuine sorrow.

The artist had fallen into a long and terrible illness, so weak that he could not even feed himself, much less stand; where he burst into dizzying cycles of dangerous fevers and frightening chills; where simply _breathing_ felt like daggers burrowing into his chest. The young _auteur_ would scream or laugh into the night, his mind addled with a malediction that caused him to see, feel and hear things that nobody else could.

He was a corpse in all but name, and the pall that came over him was said to have reeked of ignominious death.

His "family" was beside themselves with worry, the masked man claimed, for he had become their greatest asset.

Days and nights went by, and not a coin was spared by that small but wealthy theatre troupe to bring back its new visionary from the brink. He was insensate for the most part and could only remember what few lucid episodes that grievous malady afforded him.

"There is no cure for a broken spirit. Especially one that believed it was fulfilling its life's work, but in the end was scorned and forlorn."

Karma could not help herself, "Yet here you sit sipping hippocras before me. How?"

The masked man took a long swig of the hippocras, and Karma heard him smack his lips. She could tell that far from tears, he was smiling just like the visage he wore to conceal his face.

"I finally awoke on that fateful evening. I saw through the caravan window that it was a new moon and the sky was black as calligrapher's ink," the artist sighed, "I could not fathom how I had risen from my stupor but yes, truly, I felt my strength coming back."

"My illness had gone like dew on a summer morning. It was surreal...I knew that I must have had some caregiver at the time but I was alone as can be. So I searched, silent as a ghost and under the black sky I found them."

Jhin's voice grew thick with emotion like a man possessed...

"The dirt about the caravans was slick and the tang of their blood thick on my tongue. The communal fire lit for the whole troupe had been doused with it. All of them dead and gone or so I thought."

He spoke without hesitation, without sadness, without fear. Not how any man should upon describing the scene of a grisly mass murder.

"I should have been afraid. I found my _maître_ barely clinging to life. She recounted what had happened. A group of bandits had set upon our caravan, she said, and that they had made away with most of our earnings. She apologized to me for not having seen my worth sooner...or something like that..."

Jhin sighed, still enraptured by his recollection.

"I no longer heard her words after a while. Instead I was drawn to her wounds... _transfixed_ by the emotion and agony she exuded. I was mesmerized by the naked truth of her at the moment of her doom. It was then that _I_ understood the truth of myself. It was then I understood what I was _born_ for _._ "

How he cradled her in his arms, the madman said, as his _maître_ passed from this world to the next. Her final breaths a performance he considered to be among the best he has had the honor to witness. He told Karma how she had given the young Khada Jhin with a sigil written in her blood.

"I knew what she wanted me to do."

A prodigy to the very end, Karma listened how he had used his prior training as a martial artist to track down the clan of bandits who had set upon his troupe.

Karma knew that the Golden Demon had killed them. But as earlier, he did not seem morose. On the contrary, she could feel excitement from him, and unless her senses had become addled, _bliss_.

"'Twas my awakening..." the masked artist whispered dreamily, if not outright lovingly, "'tis to them I owe the discovery of my calling..."

He leaned towards her to emphasize this most important moment in his life. How he recounted with vivid detail of having killed them all after four days of searching.

"I made them _beautiful_..."

One at a time, savouring each and every one of their last moments, as if listening to every note in a song, taking in every brushstroke in a painting...

"I made them _perfect_..."

Not once he said did he hold any grudge against those bandits.

He had used chi-imbibed blades, an old skill he had learned as a student of the martial arts but applied so in a fashion never before witnessed. It was the secret to the current repertoire that had since made him legendary.

"I ask you, my fellow master of chi, 'tis amazing, no? How simply manipulating chi's ebb and flow in an individual's body could produce such...remarkable results," tipping his goblet as a toast to the bandits who had become his first _real_ cast, "Sometimes the piece produced is exactly what one had envisioned it to be, and on others...exceeding expectations. I have never minded those little _improvisós_. I do _love_ surprises."

She had seen more than enough in life to know precisely what he was speaking about.

"On that night, I was reborn. I had found my purpose and become the first advocate of an entirely new artform. I am its virtuoso. _The_ virtuoso."

"There is nothing for me…but this," he said, shuddering in ecstasy of his own self exultation.

Karma continued to be enthralled by her erstwhile host. The already muted score from the ball was nonexistent; how pale and pathetic it was in the face of his dark glamour...and she needed to know more. It was for the best then for he was inexorable. One with his memories and invigorated by the vintage which he took hearty portions from the ever-refilling cistern.

"While cleansing myself of the spoils from my first masterpiece, I caught my reflection in the mirror," his voice hitched, as if the recollection had caused him pain, "Ah, to be reborn in spirit. My physical being had to be reincarnated to match my existential apotheosis."

"I did not know how I realized where I had to go and what I had to find. I simply _understood_. I still made my home in one of the caravans during that time, and knew of its most well-kept secret. It was there within a satin-lined box behind a trick wall of my _maítre_ 's quarters surrounded by ersatz charms and incantations carved on the wooden panels."

"There was this...dark 'family secret' you could say. A theatre mask, supposedly carved by the very founder of our little troupe two centuries before and passed down to each _maître_ who followed. Or better said, it was claimed by her successor as soon as she had unexpectedly taken her own life on stage _for_ her greatest and final performance. It was said that the mask—an approximation of a vengeful spectre—imbibed within itself, the soul of our founder becoming cursed in the process. You know those sorts of old legends. Our forebears could not destroy it for it was too powerful and still a _part_ of them. Instead they bound the evil inside the mask with their own brand of magic, so that its power may instead bring prosperity. To keep it from unleashing its curse, it was kept secret, such that only the _maître_ knew where it exactly was and that it was their lifelong responsibility to keep it hidden."

The masked man's eyes sparkled in time with flashes of light coming from the festivities below.

"I felt no fear even while my trembling hands lifted it out of its prison. It _was_ beautiful...spotless, white and featureless, with only the vaguest contours to approximate a human face. Even after two centuries, it looked brand new. No evil came to possess me though I admit feeling...a certain presence emanating from that treasure. That I was holding in my hands, the legacy of a _true_ artist, and she, my prestigious progenitor, guided me from beyond to claim her heirloom as she had always meant it to be. How humbled I felt...how _honoured_ I was. I knew this for I saw a _face_ on her mask. I had to bring it to life to honor her and make her legacy my own."

For _four_ days, he claimed, he neither ate nor slept. That only with the most basic tools did he lovingly craft the ancestral mask into the vision that had since become infamous in Ionia and beyond.

Those four days he claimed, were the culmination of his rebirth. For four days, he gestated—a larva within its chrysalis—and burst forth as an imago destined to bring perfection to this world. Four—a number he had since held sacred.

Four—the number by which beauty _itself_ would be defined.

" _This_ is the face of perfection," sweeping a hand over the ivory effigy he bore, "The face of _beauty._ My _true_ face."

* * *

The Duchess did not realize how tense the atmosphere had become inside their little box. She did not notice her white-knuckled grip on her chair's armrest nor how the goblet she held in her other hand shook ever so slightly. It did not escape the practiced perception of the masked artist.

"Hm...are you troubled by what you hear, your Grace?"

 _Damn it..._ she decided honesty would be the best answer she could give him.

"I am not accustomed to someone who speaks of taking lives in such...a flamboyant fashion. Do you not even feel the need to acknowledge responsibility for their deaths?"

The murderer's reply was defensive, as if she had personally affronted him.

" _I_ have never hurt anyone. It is the _performance_ that kills."

"Performance?"

" _I_ am pure," he whispered, as if she could divine what he meant, "my work is _pure_ ,"

"I suppose I must enlighten you even more," He sighed and shook his head slightly, as if humoring an ignorant child, "and in case you believe me to be just a hired gun, a wise man once said, 'if you're good at something, never do it for free.'; after all, a boy's got to eat."

"For the sake of honouring my _other_ heritage, I decided to come back one last time to my father's dojo," the masked man chuckled, "Do you believe in fate, Duchess? For some reason, I keep arriving at my destinations at night. Oh, and what a night that was. It was a blood moon, and there was...poetry in that I should reveal the artist I had become on that evening. I made quite a sight in my new face and regalia. So much so that the students on guard duty attacked me on sight; 'Such rudeness!' I thought. Alas...I have become a far more forgiving person by then and repaid such boorishness by turning them into beauty."

He set down the crystal goblet and his eye bored into her, as if he could see right into her deepest soul.

"My father arrived just as I had finished making his last student a work of art. I could not deny feeling happiness upon seeing my birth-father, and yet I wanted him to see _who_ I had become. I wanted him to understand the _truth_ of me."

Karma noticed how he had turned his gaze from her and down onto his hands, held open on the table, as if the story were written there in the lines of his palms.

"I should have known my father would not understand right away. With a sword did he assault me, and I was forced to defend myself with the blades I had forged. He called me all sorts of vile names. Wretch. Monster. Demon. He demanded to know my purpose there before he cast me back to the pit from which I came. All the while I could not help but admire this display of raw emotion. My father had always been aloof, almost _cold_ in his detachment. Alas, my brilliance had allowed him to get in touch with his innermost being, and how I praised his performance. How I rejoiced in my own _genius_!"

"I knew I could have taken his life at any time; skilled as he was, time and his anguish were taking its toll on him. Alas, I could not _just_ do it so simply. I wanted to _honor_ him; this man who raised me, and in his own way, forged me onto this path of greatness. An idea burst into my mind. It was a gamble which would be a win whichever way it was won't to go."

"I managed to put some distance between us and put myself away from the reach of his sword. My dear father was weary already, but determined to vanquish his quarry. I myself was not unharmed; I had suffered several cuts and bruises from his impassioned attack. But I _loved_ every minute of it. My soul sang hymns of praise and gratitude...I _loved_ my father then more than any time before."

The Duchess could not believe what she was seeing and feeling. The monster before her was _weeping,_ yet waves of bliss radiated vigorously from his black soul.

"I did what the old man could not possibly have foreseen," he sighed through his tears, "I dropped my erstwhile tools...and took my face off if only to show him the visage that I had since shed, if only to lay down the truth in front of his eyes. It was an _improvisó_ of mine which had only been surpassed upon the birth of my beloved instrument. Oh if only I had _Whisper_ with me at the time..."

"Do _you_ know what _love_ is?" the artist whispered, "That moment when your mark is in your sight... _that_ _moment_ between holding your breath…and pulling the trigger."

The Golden Demon then told her of how his father's face had gone whiter than his newly carved mask, how the old man came down on one knee, utterly weak.

"What a performance! What _beauty_ my father unwittingly had created!" he said in total admiration, "I thought he would take my life, and even then I would have been content. I thought I owed my father thus at least. _I_ would never have expected him to drop his weapon and stagger toward me. I did not expect him to collapse into my arms and bawl as if a child, calling me by my birth name, begging me to come back. Not once did he demand I atone for my 'sins'. Not once did he make even any mention of his students I had made beautiful. Only that I return, that he _loved_ me still as his son..."

"You killed him," her horror palpable at this vile creature who had the audacity to take even his own forebear's life.

The Golden Demon was shaking, his body caught in a paroxysm of emotion, having never heard the malediction spouted by his one-woman audience.

"My hand shook as I reached for the stiletto I kept in my belt for a special occasion. I was crying as my father was. My tears were a pale reflection of the gratitude I felt. Ah, my father had finally _understood._ I held him tightly in my arms when my instrument _kissed_ his heart. I felt my father's love wash over me, scarlet embers did I see coming from his breast, smoldering with the love only a father could have for a son. Anointing me at last with his blessing. The spotlight of all reality was on us in that scene and we owed it the best show we could give _..._ Ah my father's last heartbeats were to that _perfect_ tempo…one, two, three, _four_ …one, two, three, _four_ …"

"'Tis a labor of _love_ what I did," he sniffed through tears of elation, "What I continue to _do._ Every shot is a beat of my heart. Every bullet, a drop of my blood. All my _art_ and all those who have been chosen to _become_ my art...a part of me."

This man was mad beyond comprehension. So pure and refined was her revulsion that there seemed to be nobody else in the world except her and the lunatic who spoke of murder with a lover's tenderness. Still the Duchess held her ground like a rock being battered by waves.

"I do not _hate_. Hatred spawns _nothing_. 'Tis _love_ that _inspires_ ," the Golden Demon wept, and the sight of those tears astonished her to her very core, "Love that _creates_...love, the only madness worth _dying_ for."

She could use his emotional upheaval to her advantage.

"'Tis only the moment _before_ the shot, that is painful…"

Or so she hoped.


	8. Act II - Chapter 4

**Act II – Chapter 4**

The Enlightened One could tell her host still had more to say, and she wanted—nay, _needed_ —to know what, if anything else made sense in his madness.

However, time was of the essence. The candles which had once stood tall on the bronze chandelier were now half melted. She could hazard that nary an hour had passed since the Golden Demon had recounted his tales.

"All you do is for love, you say, Khada Jhin. To bring about death is an act of love?"

" _Yes._ But I stress that I _refuse_ to be labeled murderer. _I_ am an _artist_ ," Jhin proclaimed, sweeping a hand flamboyantly over his person, "As I have already mentioned, it is the production that stills breaths _and_ hearts."

The atmosphere grew tense with the Duchess' newfound courage.

"Do _you_ not fear death?" she questioned, secretly relieved that the masked man was still in a plethora of emotion.

"What?" her host said, looking at her as though had never even once considered that question his whole life.

Karma sought her chance and expertly wielded a sliver of her power to tip the precarious balance of emotions in the Golden Demon in that infinitesimal window of opportunity.

 _Now let us_ truly _see the man behind the mask,_ she thought excitedly.

"Forgive me, Jhin," the Duchess said, with a hint of imperiousness in her voice, "but despite all you have claimed, it did not stop you from begging for _your_ life when the late Lord Kusho captured you—"

Her words were cut off by the noise of made by the shattered goblet within the masked man's hand and Karma's heart skipped from the sudden tempest of emotion exploding from within the Golden Demon's black soul.

For a blink of an eye, it seemed as if memories of his capture flashed before the eyes of the murderer and struck him dumb. The sound of blood dripping from his injured hand seemed to echo endlessly into oblivion.

After an all too short infinity, Khada Jhin unexpectedly replied floridly but resignedly.

"Kusho… _a_ _h,_ Lord Kusho, _my_ greatest regret, my greatest failure."

"How so?" Karma said, steeling herself once more.

"That it was not _I_ who gave him the curtain call he _deserved_. A man of such stature deserves such an ending. _No_ , Duchess. I do not bear him any ill will at all for my capture despite what you might think. I was far younger. Far more inexperienced. My skills with the blades were _passé_ compared to his. Was it such a surprise that lost? What was more, even _I_ was caught off guard by _his_ skills of subterfuge. Very impressive indeed."

Jhin laughed softly as if his wounded hand did not cause him pain.

"But as you very well know, I have since… _improved_ my act."

She narrowed her eyes. This was not how she expected the conversation to turn about.

"Eyewitnesses have said you were in tears as Kusho, Shen and Zed bound you."

"Only because they failed to grasp what those _monsters_ did to me!" the Golden Demon slammed his fist on the table, his entire demeanor changing from mildly intrigued to pained fury, "do you know what kind of _pain_ I was forced to endure?"

"I do not understand—"

" _My face!_ They _took_ my face away to subdue me. My _face!_ Oh to be robbed of it…yes, I _begged_ , but not for _my life_! I begged them to give back my face, my _self_. Ah, torment you could never possibly comprehend."

Only then did the masked man notice his bleeding hand and examined it curiously before taking out a silken handkerchief from his pocket and dressing his injury in curious strokes of four.

He then spoke, more to his hand than to Karma who had long since left her goblet untouched.

"But such is the past. I have tried time and again to leave that particular chapter of my life behind. I have long since _evolved_ you could say. But I am only human..." he stated with a genuine tone of regret in his voice, "and memories do haunt me as surely as scorned love."

To Karma's surprise, the Golden Demon gracefully stood up wordlessly, walking to the drinks table where he refilled a new goblet with the hippocras, took the cistern and refilled Karma's own.

"The night is young, O Enlightened One," his hazel eye gleamed, his emotions unreadable once again, "a toast to _humanity_."

He raised his goblet and drained it. A still wary Karma followed suit.

As soon as she had set her goblet down did a silver-white gauntlet take her hand with surprising and unexpected tenderness.

The contrast between her dark skin and his pale gauntlet was—however Karma might try to deny it—seductive.

Her green eyes met the hazel one set in the smiling mask.

"Honor me with a dance, Duchess," he said calmly but imperiously, "this _is_ a gala after all."

* * *

"Ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?"

Those were the words spoken by Khada Jhin when they descended from their secret sanctum and waded forth into one of those moments when reality is stranger than fantasy.

Surely, the Duchess Karma thought that this was one of those occasions.

She had considered it unwise to refuse the assassin's request; his earlier threat was not easy to forget.

Little did she know that in just a few short minutes, he would lead her—hand-in-hand—no less into the crowd proceed to take the lead there and then without effort.

The scene had changed since they had had their little heart-to-heart.

The very lights thrown by the floating chandeliers and candles of the great hall has become more somber and expressive. Some changing color to more vivid shades of red and gold, while others turned a more ghastly blue and violet.

A waltz of exuberant and captivating leitmotif was being played and it seemed that all present were enthralled by it.

It was something the Golden Demon seemed positively pleased with.

How bizarre it was to be have been talking to this man, a wretch she was so appalled and revolted by just a while earlier, only for the same to now literally sweep her off her feet.

Despite her bewilderment, the Duchess kept her wits and knew he was still dangerous. That everyone in the cathedral sized hall was dangerous. She could not risk blowing her cover in attempting to apprehend any or all of them and a part of her wondered irritably if this was Khada Jhin's plan from the start.

She could feel enjoyment coming from within the masked assassin's lithe frame. From what, she could not know.

Surely it was not just because of this opportunity to dance?

She caught him not just looking at her, but throwing glances into the crowd while all of them moved to the music.

As before, he read her easily even behind her emerald-wire mask.

"Oh, Duchess…you like to watch?" Jhin purred.

"You disgust me," she snarled under her breath, "and _you_ are the one who cannot keep his eyes from the rest of these—these—"

"Oh? What are _they_ to you?" he chuckled, turning her round gracefully, "I would have thought you would want nothing more than to have everyone here sent to the gallows."

The orchestra struck a high note and the Golden Demon brought her close enough so that their faces were but side-by-side.

" _I_ am not like you," she hissed into his ear, "despite who they are—who _you_ are—I am not so cruel."

"The world _is_ cruel," Jhin replied tenderly, "it does not have to be _ugly_."

The orchestra's lively _forte_ began to edge toward a more expressive _adagio_ , and with the tempo did the dance change, as did the lights and the very mood within the grand ballroom.

Scarlet.

Passion.

Fire.

Lust.

"Breathe in the atmosphere," he whispered.

'Twas a true testament to the Duchess' indomitable will, that she held true. She knew that some ersatz magic was at work. She could feel it attempting to pull her through…seducing her into giving herself to it.

A task made more difficult by the seductive madman who led her effortlessly in dance.

"Ah…they will live until they die," he remarked more to himself than to his anxious partner, his gaze scanning the gyrating crowd, " _We_ all will live until we die."

Her revulsion for his philosophy was written all over her masked face, and he the supreme artist, missed it not.

"Words alone are not enough... _yes_ , we _will_ live until we die," he whispered in her ear, "What _is_ life I ask you? We all have been privileged to walk this world. Yet so few of us _destined_ for greatness…"

Strength of will could only do so much…she was drowning in a sea of fear and sound and light and passion, clutched in the embrace of a creature in an ivory mask.

"Gaze at them...these puppets dancing to the art at hand and the art that is to come," he explained, bringing her into low sway so that to the Duchess it seemed the gala was defying gravity, "Yes, even these 'monsters' are capable of creating sublime beauty…with a little _assistance_."

" _I_ have made it my life's work— _my duty_ —to provide those who simply _exist_ a chance not just to live, but to become _immortal_. Only when we know the end is near that we hold on to dear life, that we give the performance to end all others. 'Tis our chance to shout, to _sing_ aloud, ' _I am alive!'_ in a multiverse where existence—where simply _living_ —is to be a speck of dust about the eternal dance of the stars."

"To die is to seize our chance—to become beings with the capacity for _purpose_ , for _glory_ and most of all...for _beauty._ Death is _the_ high note that _commands_ the applause of all that exists. Anything else is empty panache."

"How can I stop then, I ask you?" with a sudden pull, Jhin brought her face-to-face, "How can I _deny_ my fellow beings their chance? Their chance to truly _live?_ " the artist choked with a tear in his hazel eye.

A heavy passage from the waltz sought to pull the strings of hearts as beautifully as the musicians onstage, and both Khada Jhin and the Duchess brought their gazes toward the direction of the orchestra.

"The stage, she calls you no? She calls us all…"

As if on cue, a slender woman in a spectacular glittering crimson veil and gown took her place at a vacant spot right in the middle of the orchestra which was by then playing an interlude—expectant and ringing—heralding a promised climax to that evening concert.

The lights further dimmed about the hall, with only those illuminating the stage burning bright.

Into life then came an _aria_ in seraphic soprano that seemed to not come from any mortal vessel but from something transcendent.

The mood thusly changed, and the revelers and musicians followed suit.

All of them, both audience _and_ performers, enslaved by a power that was beyond words and could only be understood. It was _music_ , primal and passionate as the first spark of life in the universe, and Khada Jhin would have proclaimed it incredible had he not seemingly been put under its spell.

Enchanted by the music yet helpless and reviling within this sea of black souls, Karma was in torment.

Ah but they were _all_ puppets, Khada Jhin would have said; puppets dancing on strings made of light and sound, of ardour and passion. Karma could feel all this all but exploding from each and every one of the spellbound crowd.

It was overwhelming; and despite her misgivings, it was terribly, irrevocably, tempting…

Alas his baritone broke the rapture of the haunting melody. It appeared that he was not just above such magic, but was well within his element.

"Have you never dreamed of the excitement of being on stage? Have you not _dreamed_ of performing...of the _applause_ that takes away all the cares of life?" he said grandiosely, "just you step onstage, you hear the applause, the cheers, the _magic_...all your fears they go..."

A court of artists or a court of fools, one could not possibly say.

All that could be said was that it certainly looked like a stage to the Duchess with its dancing crowd, smoldering lights, and musicians possessed by the power of song.

"Look…" the mask said whilst turning her round sensually then pulling her close, her back against his body, her face all but side by side with his, "there is art _here_ …waiting."

"You…" she gasped in horror even while still being swept off her feet, feeling an unnatural faintness coming over her.

"That I would spare even them? I _love_ these people, and by now you should know what that means," he laughed, "Oh my dear, nobody should ever be _denied_ the limelight…"

Only then did the Duchess notice his gift—the brooch—glowing a soft shade of purple.

She could not fight whatever enchantment was in it, and that infernally smiling mask continued to lead her in a macabre dance.

Karma tried to will forth her power, but could only rail in a strangled voice her indignation and horror.

"Liar—" she choked, "everything—lies…"

She felt a slender finger stroke her cheek just as the magnificent _aria_ neared its crescendo.

"Smoke and mirrors are essential in any artform," he whispered like a lover, "and the truth is _always_ in the eye of the beholder."

Karma tried to push away at the madman, to shout—exposure and caution be damned—for she saw the enraptured members of the Black Rose wearing brooches of the same kind on their person, all seemingly smoldering amethysts in space.

"But know this…I have not lied to you, O Enlightened One. You will live tonight. I _am_ a man of my word."

The Duchess could not breathe nor move, in horror or whatever magic he had dealt she could not understand, her sight becoming a hysterical kaleidoscope.

"I have one last piece of gestalt wisdom to share. The fundamental _truth_ behind my work."

A pair of warm hands, one somewhat still sticky with scarlet blood, raised her mask slowly and held her naked face as if for a kiss.

The applause from the crowd for the finale of the concerto came as if underwater.

Her vision was a phantasmagoria of smoldering lotus petals blowing in the wind and turning into purple embers that sparkled and scintillated.

Her last memories were of that ethereal mask and the words it spoke when the gale of luminescent blossoms swept her away into a world of white…

"Ultimately...art _must_ exist beyond reason."


	9. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

A pervasive fragrance enticing her nose forced the Duchess to awaken.

It had seemed a nightmare…one all too real, with a bogeyman leading her through an infernal dance amongst shades.

Her eyes opened, and a supine Karma was perplexed for it seemed as if she could see only in shades of red.

The floating candles still smoldered, and they were red.

The imposing walls of the great hall were red.

Even the distant ceiling seemed red.

And there was that smell...it was familiar to her.

A heady, floral perfume that her memory remembers as wonderfully delicate and beautiful in its evanescence, now magnified a hundred times stronger to be solid and omnipresent.

She raised a hand to her aching head, still not fully in control of her faculties, and noticed that there was no music.

Absolute silence, where there had once been music and revelry.

Her hand was rather viscid, and it took Karma more effort than she usual to pull it away.

Was there something on her palm? She gave it a good look.

It was red, and just so, a drop of liquid pattered down on her face.

It was but one, and more scarlet drops seemed to fall. A spring shower in scarlet.

 _One._

 _Two._

 _Three._

 _Four._

Karma's breath then froze in her throat, the world _was_ red. The floor, the walls, the ceiling—even _she_ was covered in red.

And now she recalled what that overwhelming perfume was; the aroma of lotus blossoms.

Karma rose, numb and shivering—from horror or her blood-drenched dress she could not process—and realized _she_ was its centerfold.

She was within a great crimson flower. _She_ , its scarlet heart.

An inflorescence of carnage where the components of the petals struck poses at once mesmerizing, terrifying and—for no words can better describe— _theatrical_.

The still-burning candles were arranged to form the name of his final insult in the air.

As though the monster still had her in his insane embrace, she heard _his_ voice say the name of his latest piece, clear and proud and _promising_ to deliver more…

 _"Opening Night"_


End file.
